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We slam the doors. Bar them. Good, solid wood. The world narrows to a point. One of the troopers shouts out he's found the stairs to the roof and sealed the internal hatch. A few loud THUMP THUMP THUMP noises indicate the boots the men above are bringing down, but the noise fades quick. They saw our guns. Our spears. They have no desire to attack a building sheltered armed opponents in a fortified position. Taking anything by storm is a bad idea, to be used only if you have no other option. They could smoke you out, perhaps. But . .. the building is nicely decorated. Stout stone walls. Very little wood. Wouldn't burn well. Of course, enough combustibles against the side of the door and the smoke will do you in. But that takes time. So for now, you live. You catch your breath. The adrenaline pounds and then it settles.
And you have a little time to glance around the inside of your tomb. It, much like the other building in this village, is built around a square central chamber with various alcoves for more specific use. This one however is large enough, and opulent, to hold a small detached room with a single internal door. It looks like something so mundane as an office, it holds a writing desk and a few shelves of various bits for keeping notes and filling ledgers. Reams of leather-bound paper-scrap. And a small folding telescope, brass and alloys, clean and shining against the background. Ah. Yes. Scarlett knows about these: Weatherlog Stations. This is not a Pytherii Waystation, but local villges often supplement their income by tracking clouds and selling the reports on to the Waystation attendents. This village must be in the business to. It's good, keeps track of the Wrack and the Weather, which would be important for their farming and their lives.
And then, of course, there is the Feast. This one is worthy of the word. Thick loaves of black bread, cups of clear water, plates laid out with military precison and silver cutlery around a frankly enormous long-table that takes up nigh half the room. How did it fit in through the doors? Edward spots it. Same type you'd find on a ship, sort of, in a sense - it's a massive folding table. Engagement mechanisms underneath let it be bent down for easier transport.
Not a single bit of food has been touched.
Though it's sure enough for ten people. Each plate has a small statue of a curious figure, humanoid, indistinct, long arms ending in long fingers. They're different than anything else, because they look home-made in a way that nothing else here does. Clay figures, then, shaped by recent hands. There's not any two alike, though they clearly depict the same almost-humanoid thing.
One of the troopers, brought there by stress and sun, slides down the wall. Starts laughing uproariously. It is a little funny. You're stuck inside the last fortress you'll ever hold, hostiles all around, who knows even how many, but the building you've burst into holds a feast fully prepared.
Bad luck? Or good luck?
